Not so young anymore. And I know the forty-year-olds reading this are rolling their eyes, thinking lucky you, and actually that's a comforting thought, because, yes, it's true, I'm not forty. Not yet.

But I keep looking in the mirror thinking, Oh, okay, my perfect skin is not so perfect anymore. And I look tired. But it's not that I look tired. It's that I look older.

Aging.

Aging as a woman and the vanity that ensues.

I've gotten a new job. It's just about a month old. And I really like it.

But for the first time, in my adult life, I have a relatively normal schedule. Which means my nights and weekends are free. And now I take the subway home each evening, to my tiny, studio apartment. Which I love, but for that it somehow feels emptier at night.

And as it turns out, evening loneliness is a whole different beast.

A week from twenty-eight, living alone in a tiny apartment, thousands of miles from my family, in a life so different than what I imagined ten years ago...well, euf.

And that is both a blessing and a very, very bitter pill to swallow.

Riding the subway home today, a pungent combination of body-oder, McDonalds, and marijuana filling the train, I thought, I'm too old for this. If this is New York, I'm too old for this. And I felt the first rumblings of a cry come one. So I got off the subway two stops too soon, took the long walk home, and by the time I'd walked the four flights of stairs to my door, I was literally gasping for air.

It's a funny thing, crying in that way that's full body and surprising and absolutely sweet. And a little bit holy. Painful, but holy, too. I sat on the edge of the bed before lying down flat, tears pooling in the crook of my ears and mascara suddenly all over my face and hands and legs.

I never really know what color my eyes are. Until I cry. And then I get why people call them green. And I suppose they are.

I windexed my floor tonight. Because that seemed like the totally sensible thing to do after a really good cry when there isn't a swiffer wipe in sight. I sat on my bum and windexed the refinished wood floors. Paper toweling and spray bottle.

I'm a week away from twenty-eight, making peace with a new sort of lonely. Humbled by the fact that it's still just my lonely. And at this age, I didn't think that would be the case.

I think as you get older you begin to realize you have to have like two-days or two-months or two-years-more-worth-of-patience in you than you even think possible. Because the timeline is not your own.

And there will come a day when we'll all end up with mascara on our legs. And that's okay. Holy, in its own way.